


The Absence of Doctor Hannibal Lecter

by AlJeDd



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fear, Hannibal is kidnapped, Hostage Situations, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Men Crying, Rape, Stockholm Syndrome, Threats, Violence, Vomiting, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:19:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4384349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlJeDd/pseuds/AlJeDd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our favourite Hanni gets himself in a bit of a sticky situation, and he needs his beloved William and Abigail to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The story begins on a peaceful night. Doctor Hannibal Lector is looking forward to a relaxing night in alone. The man has planned an exemplary dinner (as always) and can't wait to get started.

After the mandatory preparation, Doctor Lector cleans the sides down - he possibly has OCD - but his actions halt at a distant crash. In fact, the sound is so distant Hannibal is, for a second, convinced that whatever the sound is, it is located outside. Unfortunately, Hannibal is proved wrong as the same sound, only closer, increases. Sighing, the doctor closes his eyes briefly in attempt to specify the sound. Something heavy drags along the floor, only a hint of footsteps and maybe some ragged breathing. Hannibal can't quite pinpoint where the sound is.

He subtly grips the knife he used previously in his right hand, pretending to be distracted with some onions. With this advantage, he can swipe at the attacker before they can even come within a meter of him. A shadow, ever so light yet still there, moves a fraction in the doorway ahead of Hannibal. The doctor steadies himself for the inevitable blood bath, unaware of the advancing figure behind him.

The whistle of air shifting as the dart flies is unheard until the last moment. By then, Hannibal is grunting, sliding his hand to the nape of his neck to pluck the tranquiliser from the punctured flesh. Knife in hand suddenly isn't in hand, as it clatters onto the worktop with an echo (at least, the crash appears different to the doctor). With heavy eyelids, Hannibal curses in Lithuanian. Before his lean frame can collapse, a pair of muscled arms come to his rescue.

Hannibal feels himself being lifted into a firm hold, his body supported at the neck and crook of the knees. Another, effortful grunt escapes the man's lips as he struggles against the sedative. But even for him, the drug is too strong and pulls him under into the abyss of darkness. Unconscious. Defenceless. His captors almost burst with pride, easily exiting the house carrying their victim. They cannot wait to get started on their form of revenge.

Maybe they'll even learn some from the doctor, after all, he is an interesting figure that just _needs_ to be observed; even put to the test. It has been an ambition of the pair for ever so long. Months, years. They have waited patiently to strike. Now that the moment has come, the feeling is odd, but rather satisfactory. Indeed.

_Indeed._


	2. Chapter 2

Day three after Hannibal's kidnapping, people begin to notice his absence. It occurs a little before one in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Doctor Lecter is supposed to be analysing a corpse on site, but the man is nowhere to be found. His calls, texts and emails fail to be replied, and that in itself is a concern. What really stirs Jack Crawford though, is how late Hannibal is. He was due to arrive hours ago! We _all_ know Hannibal Lecter is _never_ late. Ever.

Jack remains at Will's side, staring on at the crowd of forensic scientists and various officers working around the dead body of Aaliyah Roberts. The woman's occupation was as a secretary at the clinic in the neighbouring town. Nobody special; but obviously a potential work of art in the killer's mind. Will Graham knows already this isn't the work of the Chesapeake Ripper, anyone would be able to tell simply by the lack of... imagination. Creativity, even, if one would be willing to go far enough.

The nails on Will's right hand are narrowing down fast, broken piece by piece by his sharp canines. A nervous habit, it seems. His worry for his psychiatrist increases as time ticks by. Something is definitely not right, even the dumbest of people would guess that. But the real question is; what actually happened to Hannibal? An involvement in a traffic/vehicle accident? Surely, the whole FBI-police social circle would have been informed if that may have occurred. No, Hannibal is not late, or injured. Well, possibly injured, because Will has a feeling in his bones, a feeling much more intense than a gut feeling, that Doctor Lecter, the one and only himself, has been kidnapped.

He murmurs his assumption to Jack, who, though bemused as ever, reluctantly allows Will to depart and search for Hannibal at his house. Quick to his car, Graham speeds to Hannibal's office in an off-chance that the Doctor has simply forgotten his whereabouts. Empty. Checking behind doors, anywhere (even under the desk) that a grown man could fit himself. At the back of Will's mind, a subconscious thought that the said man is playing a trick, hosting a prank diminishes as the sudden reality of the situation settles in. Hannibal is in trouble.

The brunet jumps back into his car and rushes to the Lector house, a place he has visited so many times but now appears aesthetically different. When he enters, noticing the unlocked front door, the house is vacant. A little searching around leaves Will in the familiar kitchen. Slightly panicked, Will dashes upstairs to check Hannibal isn't around somewhere, before hurriedly heading back to the kitchen, phone in hand, ringing Crawford.

 “Jack! I need you to bring some forensics to Hannibal's house. Somebody has broken into his house, but I've got a bad feeling they intended to take him.” Will informs to the other, his voice a higher pitch than usual with a faster speed. Jack senses the panic and beckons three scientists over, quietly telling them their new jobs. He hears heavy breathing on the other side of the phone, and instantly feels a pang of concern for the unstable man.

“Alright Will, I want you to take a deep breath, and relax. I've got forensics on their way as we speak. Everything will be okay,” Will complies, and without another word needed, calms himself enough to hang up. Jack stuffs his phone back in his pocket and waves another fellow colleague to his side.

The friend of his is then told the news of Doctor Lector's absence and assures Crawford he can cover for him. The man is thankful, and after sharing his gratitude he is off, in his car, on the route to Hannibal's house.

* * *

Meanwhile, the doctor stirs. His head is heavy, unable to support its own weight independently, and he feels a though he has cotton wool stuffing for a brain. His tongue is weighed down, like lead, whilst his puffy, bloodshot eyes refuse to stay open more than a couple of seconds. Everything is dry; his eyes, his throat and his lips. The cold room provides a chill that tingles Hannibal's bare skin, nothing around to give him warmth. He shivers pathetically, clenching his teeth until they ache to prevent a chatter.

The goose bumps on his skin tingle, and summon a soft groan from the psychiatrist. Inside his dark little room, settles an eerie quiet that shakes even Hannibal. He stares at the door ahead, ears straining to hear anything. But there are no sounds. In this poorly lit chamber, by Lecter's guess an attic or basement of some form, it is hard to find any clues of his whereabouts. In fact, there are no indications. Not one.

A chill races through the man's spine. And it isn't due to the cold. No, Hannibal is startled. What would he do if nobody came to find him? Surely someone would notice his disappearance. Will, perhaps. Jack, Alana, Bedelia. Hannibal hoped people he wouldn't think of would search. Who? Team Sassy Science, or whatever they called themselves (by them he means Jimmy, Beverly and Brian). He doesn't care.

Actually, Hannibal ponders briefly the mental stability of his patient. How would Graham cope? Hannibal likes to think of himself as an anchor, and has a right mind to think Will agrees too. In his train of thought, Lecter neglects his intense hearing session. He regrets doing so as the door abruptly bursts open. The man would scoff if he wasn't so tolerant at the sight of a pair of grown, built men wearing masks. He has a feeling these men shouldn't show their bad sides.

Without an uttered word, Hannibal shifts and quickly covers a grimace at the sound and feel of clanking chains. Hooked onto his ankle, with an estimated distance of at least three meters in length. Not even anywhere close to the door. The biggest of the two (Hannibal can't really tell from his position on the floor), sends a sly kick to the doctor's ribs. Winded, Lecter gains false composure and shows an angry glare. Amused, muffled laughter emits from the 'kicker' who bends to pull the weak man to his feet.

From there, the captors make quick work of restraining their hostage under the advantage of the dizziness blurring the victim's vision. By the time the room has stopped spinning, Lecter is bound at the wrists, with a metal collar secured around his neck and a chain connecting his ankles with enough slack to allow the doctor to walk minimal steps. The task is completed in silence, albeit Hannibal releases a miniscule grunt as he is tugged by the collar.

As the trio exit what is now identified as a closed off room in a two-story house, Hannibal struggles to remain upright. Lead by the handcuffs, he has nothing to break his fall if he does topple. Clearly nothing wants to be on Hannibal's side today, as his worry occurs. He trips on the ankle chain, but before the floor meets him a hand chokes him. Well, the hand pulls Lecter up by his collar. Shaken, Hannibal breathes deeply to calm himself as they proceed.

Hannibal attempts to focus on something other than his refinement, and finds himself appreciating the temperature rise. Wearing nothing but thin, unprotecting boxer shorts provide nothing, even in this sudden warmth, no matter how small the degree increase. Observing the surroundings, Lecter deflates at the lack of decoration for evidence. Nothing significant to remember during escape.

Wherever he is, the place is completely bland. No indications. Sighing quietly, the bemused doctor forces himself to catch up with his captors. He severely dislikes the tug on his neck. Mentally muttering curses nobody but he can hear, Hannibal spots a mechanically locked door secured by several security pads that require identification. Apart from that dead giveaway, Lecter doubts there are any more accessible exits. Yanked forward, the man raises his bloodshot eyes to a room drowning in people. They are few women, but plenty of men. A wave of disturbance washes over Hannibal at the unknown.

The various conversations immediately die down, all eyes only on the bound male. Hannibal swallows, not quite a gulp yet fearful self composure. The sudden epiphany of the predicament settles when wordlessly, Lecter is dragged to a centered pole and surrounded by the complete, silent strangers. There is no struggle - Hannibal deems it humiliating, desperate and worthless. He is cornered, outnumbered. Putting up a fight would get him nowhere.

HIs masked captors appear smug, impressed even, by the docile behaviour. They know it is to gain trust and earn some freedom, but to no exception shall that be offered or given. It would lead to escape, and unaffordable, very avoidable result. Hannibal is unaware of this; he doesn't know how far under the radar he actually is. But he'll realise soon enough. A previous discussion leding to a debate meant Hannibal's fate would rest here. This very moment would decide whether Hannibal would be sold, or kept and trained under strict orders. Either way, the man shall be stripped of all dignity.

Hannibal allows the men to tie him up to the metal pole. The sturdy structure is like ice to the touch, something not so good for a bare man. Lecter rests his forehead against it so he does not have to see all the watchful eyes. Discomfort increases every second. He tenses at shuffling sounds, before advancing footsteps directly behind the man halt. His skin blossoms with goose bumps at the feel of warm breath, his own bated in anticipation. Hannibal refuses to turn around. Instead, he is flipped onto his back upright anyway, to his dismay, so he presses against the cool pole.

Blue eyes mix with maroon. He does not recognise the face, though his masked kidnapers remain off to one side. Ready to spring if anything happens. Hannibal believes they won't prevent anything happening to him though, provoked or not. Despite this, he raises his chin with an icy glare that matches the pole and gritted teeth that define his jawline. Briefly, the puffy orbs flicker across the room to examine the situation, albeit he still has no idea what proceeds now.

One burly man volunteers (without talking, of course) to begin, and stands beside the other stranger. They whisper among themselves, then in unison punch Hannibal. Caught off guard, the blond staggers, all the while choking. The assault continues, but comes to a relentless stop minutes later as another pair step forward. Hannibal hacks blood from his throat but allows it to dribble down his chin, feeling rude to spit it. He'd probably be hurt more if he did anyway, as a sign of disrespect.

The time it takes for everyone to have had a good go at beating Hannibal lasts for hours. The people are merciless, brutal, and Lecter doesn't even know them! Has he offended these strangers? Or were they simply invited to arrive with an opportunity to hurt some random guy tied a pole? Some man brought a baseball bat for god's sake! It did wind the blond pretty bad though, he will admit. However, during this mind-numbing, defenceless attack Hannibal noticed that not once, in the entire duration did the disguised men who forced him into this, did they touch his body. They stayed right off to the side, close enough to restrain the doctor but with enough room to give the beaters space.

He only hopes, after being dragged back to his naked room bloody and exhausted, that the days spent here are short and rapid. Hannibal wishes someone will step up to the plate and be his saviour. He cannot believe he has barely lasted hours here already. In his defence (though he has a scarce one) he was tied up, alone and beaten by strong humans with violent intentions. Will this happen again? Hannibal hopes not, and so decided to stay on his nest behaviour to prevent punishments such as these. He has no idea what is in store for him. He doesn't want to know, either.


	3. Chapter 3

Will Graham wakes with a jump. His eyes dart around the room, bloodshot and blurry. Sweat drips from his hair down his face, leaving darker patches of grey on his previously dry shirt. His breathing is rapid and laboured, choppy puffs of air escaping chapped lips, tongue swiping the torn skin in an attempt to wet it. The man looks at his clock, cursing. 2:03 AM. He forces himself up, ignoring the wave of dizziness washing over his being.

After airing his now topless torso on the porch, staring out into the abyss of darkness, Will reluctantly thinks about Hannibal. Is he dead? Alive? Suffering? He hopes not. Where is he? Who took him? What do they want? Even worse so, Graham ponders; Who is next? Of course, there is a 50/50 chance that the kidnappers only wanted Hannibal, but the possibility that anyone else will be taken to punish Lecter is a terrifying thought.

It would be interesting, in a disturbing sort of way, to see how the captors would go about it. Would they take someone like Alana? Or Jack (Hannibal probably would have no regard for the man) or himself? What about his psychiatrist, Doctor Du Maurier, was it? Will has only heard mentions of the woman. But there is always a chance. Always a chance.

The chance that they will find Doctor Lecter alive. The chance that they will find Doctor Lecter dead. The chance that they will never find Doctor Lecter. The chance that they will find someone else too, or search to begin. Even the chance, though almost too slim, that Doctor Lecter was not in fact kidnapped, and that he left on his own free will. Graham highly doubts that chance, however. The possibilities are endless.

What isn't endless, albeit, is the stream of violent thoughts crashing through Will's mind. He winces at the image of a beaten, restrained Hannibal. Shaking his head, ridding the unwanted pictures, Graham laughs humourlessly and walks back to bed. He sleeps dreamlessly for the remainder of the early morning.

* * *

Hannibal barely sleeps at all. His concern for those in acquaintance to him does not help, nor the searing pain throbbing at every heartbeat through his body. The agony courses through his veins, and his medical mind assesses his state in a clinical way only he is capable of doing in such a state. He appears to luckily, have suffered only a couple of cracked ribs, sustained no broken bones but gained serious bruising and swelling. Lecter would sigh in relief if not for the pain in the simple task of breathing. He inhales shallowly with even softer exhales. At least his diaphragm has not betrayed him yet.

When morning arises, Hannibal is deprived. Deprived from fresh air, food, water, sleep and pain killers. _A good dose of morphine would certainly benefit right now,_ Hannibal thinks. Despite this, he has mastered the art of blocking the pain from his senses - last night he struggled to concentrate over his affliction. Now, he focuses on listening out for any tell tale signs of an approach. There is nothing to look out for, not in his bare room. He cannot touch anything, with the exception of his chains or the primitive surfaces such as the wall and floor. He can taste blood, smell blood and sweat. The blond is completely reliable on his hearing. Something he is not too bad at.

He counts to three hundred mentally before he hears anything other than his own breathing and soft chain links clinking. At first, it is the familiar distant footstep sound he heard in his kitchen yesterday. _Yesterday! It does not seem like yesterday. I feel this has been my fate for longer,_ he thinks. _No, focus Hannibal!_ he reprimands himself. The advancing person is now plural, as Lecter hears two sets of footsteps, much closer than before.

Again, the man counts in his head, this time only reaching seventy by the time the feet have reached the door to his room. A few seconds of hesitation, probably the end of a conversation, then the door bursts open. Even though he expected it, the doctor still jumps. He blinks up at the pair of men, both wearing their masks again. Hannibal swallows thickly, not out of fear or anticipation, but to simply clear his throat. It does not work.

The biggest of the men, Hannibal decides to call Alfredo, takes an agonisingly slow step closer with narrowed eyes. They are piercingly green, a feature Hannibal takes note of for future preferences. His partner has brow ones, a chocolate colour a few shades lighter than Lecter's. Hannibal names him Leo. Alfredo (Alf being the abbreviation) sends a swift quick to Hannibal's abdomen. The doctor groans, regretting the noise instantly as he is mocked by laughter.

No opportunity for Lecter to sit up arises, because the kick is only the beginning to an entire beating. Hannibal grits his teeth. Bites his lip. Clenches his hands. Curls his toes. Anything that helps him flow with the pain. He rolls onto his stomach and curls his body by tucking his knees underneath him and bringing his arms up to protect his head. Once in the position, Hannibal sends himself off to a mind palace, where he can forget about reality, even if only for a little while, and think about things he likes.

It takes twenty minutes for the pair to tire out. Leo unravels the doctor, pulling him from his safe haven to drag him up. Alfredo lifts him into a fireman's lift then proceeds to follow the other out of the room. Hannibal closes his eyes, forcing his nausea to pass as he is constantly jostled in the strong hold. Leo opens a secured door and allows Alf in first, before he shuts the door and locks it again.

Lecter opens his eyes when he is suddenly dropped to the floor. He rolls into his back, breathing heavily in agony. From his splayed position on the floor, the man watches his captors talking and adding chemicals to a vile used for needles to extract from. Cringing, the weak Hannibal can only observe and wait for whatever is to happen. Moments later, the blond is injected with a single needle that knocks him out seconds after.


	4. Chapter 4

Jack is pushing Will again. He requests his presence at the newest set of murders. They're similar to the Chesapeake Ripper's, but not quite the same.  _It's almost as if they're cover ups._

Will is trying. Will is trying his hardest. But it is truly difficult to focus on what you do best when the person who knows you best has disappeared. Jack has been complaining, prodding at Will's mind with his cane.

 _"Come on Will. Concentrate! Is this the Ripper or not?"_ It doesn't end there.

Graham doesn't eat anymore. Not unless someone tells him to. Graham doesn't sleep anymore. The nightmares plague his slumber. Graham barely talks anymore. What's the point? Graham never turns up on time anymore. He doesn't even care.

A week has passed. There are no signs of Hannibal yet. Will has helped out, got as many people to join the search. He has Alana, Jack, Jimmy and even Brian. There are few others on the case, but most have given up hope. Everyone but Will. And Alana. But that's understandable.

They have no idea where to even start looking. Clearly these captors are adamant that Hannibal stays with them, and that nobody will find him. Not easily, anyway.

Alana and Will have a tendency to visit each other or follow the other home after searching. Margot is rather welcoming too, and has herself even had a go at the whole search. She is aware of how much this means to Will, and the impact on Alana.

Will prays to a God he isn't sure exists that there will be a lead soon enough. Just the smallest give away. Anything. He just wants Hannibal alive.

 

* * *

 Hannibal isn't sure he is going to live that long anymore. After being drugged, the blond was transported to a new, pitch black room. It has been that dark, Hannibal couldn't even see his own hand in front of his face. Though there was nothing there to indicate the time, Hannibal was almost certain he was left in the room for at least twenty four hours. Eventually, the room had been illuminated in light brighter than it should have been. When Hannibal could see again, he had panicked and backed away from the many people staring at him with hungry eyes. The poor guy had not moved far, because he had found himself hitting the back of a cage. Before he'd managed to climb out of the open door, it had been slammed.

Even now, Lecter is in the damned cage. The room is lit, which the captured man is grateful for. He struggles to breathe, ribs bruised to hell and cracked. He struggles to just about anything, truthfully, but in his defence, the doctor survived another beating. Well, barely. His weak body will not last long in this state without treatment, especially paired with the lack of food and water ingested and his age.

All Hannibal wants to do is go home. Home. How long has he been here? He's lost count. Days, or weeks? What if he has been here for months? An unsettling concept, if so; how could they not have found him yet? Surely someone had noticed his disappearance.

Just like the first day of his capture, Hannibal is too lost in thought to hear his captors' entrance. He jumps as one clears his throat and he hits his head on the top of the cage. The cage is more of a dog crate, big enough to fit a small man. A small man. Hannibal, the tall, lean man. That is not small. Well, he has lost some weight. He could almost be classed as skinny. His muscles are wearing away from lack of use, something the man is extremely disappointed about.

Lecter notices that the men before him have completely covered their heads. He cannot tell them apart, which unnerves him. One is more violent than the other; he takes advantage of the weaker one, but now he finds complication differentiating the two. They move so close that they touch the cage, their dark eyes boring into the blond. It takes effort not to cower away.

Yes, Hannibal is frightened. Terrified. Petrified. Simply because he knows their wanton ways and the mere fact that he can do nothing to stop them hurting him. Breaking him. They mess with his head. Like he messed with Will. Mentally changing him.

Lecter is beginning to believe that he will never escape, or see daylight again. He is beginning to believe that he will spend the rest of his miserable life with these men. The thought sends shivers down his spine.

One of the men crouches down beside the cage door and makes intense eye contact with the doctor. Hannibal forces himself not to look away. He flinches at the uncalled for touch by the other man. He backs away. The door is opened rapidly, and with no time to register Hannibal realises he is being dragged out by his ankles. The psychiatrist cries out, wriggling vigorously whilst sending kicks. To no avail. He changes his tactic to grabbing the cage sides, but the other man yanks the cage away until Hannibal is free.

The doctor freezes, wide eyes on the pair. His ankles drop to the stone floor but Hannibal makes no other move. After a moment of intense silence, Hannibal sits up; but he is instantly shoved onto his back again. Groaning, the blond submits to the men in his fatigued state and relaxes. His skin raises into goose bumps against the chilled ground, and a shiver rises through his body.

The other man forces Hannibal's collar on. He wears this almost always, except when he is caged. There is no resistance although a slight wince at the touch, but it is ignored. Hannibal sucks in a deep breath before he is yanked into standing position by the leather wrapped over his throat. He follows their lead down a new corridor. The walls outside of his room hold paintings similar to the ones Hannibal would have in his home.

They reach a secluded room at the end of the corridor, and Hannibal watches as one unlocks the door and enters, Hannibal and his partner behind. Lecter skims over the bathroom. It has beige, calming tiled walls with a sink and toilet to match. The toilet is where Hannibal is situated. Finally, the doctor's eyes settle on the centrepiece of the room; the bathtub. The waters surface is disguised with bubbles and steam drifts into the air.

Lecter ignores the chuckle sent his way, they probably sense his delight. He really needs a clean. Once the door to the room is shut and locked, the other man yanks Hannibal up to stand (again) and pulls down Hannibal's boxers. The blond is sat back down again on the open toilet and told to relieve himself. Lecter does not have to be told twice. After the psychiatrist has finished, he is led to the bathtub and lifted in. The bubbles cover the last portion of dignity Hannibal has left.

Despite the steaming temperature, Hannibal is more than grateful for this reward, and wastes no time quietly thanking his captors for their kindness. Smug, the men begin to converse in a language Lecter cannot detect. One stands to the side, always prepared in case the blond tries anything whilst his colleague pours water over Hannibal's head. The said man tilts his face back and closes his eyes, content to be finally bathing (he thought he'd never be washed properly again).

The sound of voices are more foreign than the language spoken, because for however long Hannibal has been held here, nobody has uttered a word in his presence. Hannibal knows the silence is deliberate just as much as he knows these men probably speak fluent English. But, he banishes the pondering thought and allows his mind to drift. His previously tense body relaxes as the muscles gently unravel.

The feeling of the gushing water over his hair disappears but does not return, in result Hannibal's eyes blink open. He did not realise how tired he truly was until this precise moment, so when his cloudy vision clears Lecter flinches under the gaze of the men. Hannibal's muscles contract as he scoots to the furthest side of the tub, unembarrassed by his obvious fear. What is the need in hiding when the men have every intention of him fearing them?

The one standing guard crouches beside the trembling figure to stare into his teary eyes. Maroon and cerulean meet as a rough hand cups the doctor's cheek. The man's other hand reaches edgily to tug off the cotton balaclava so his face is revealed. Hannibal stares, his gaze flickering to the other man who copies his partner. They glance at each other then return their looks to the blond. Seconds later, Lecter has his anticipated epiphany.

Hannibal begins to sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit this is a big ass chapter! And we're beginning the drama oooh...  
> Thanks for the support 'n' stuff, it's greatly appreciated x


	5. Chapter 5

Jack allowed Will an entire week off work so he could sort his head out. The poor guy was struggling to return to his own mind set after analysing cases. Crawford knew how badly the stress was wearing down on him, so reluctantly gave him a break. Will couldn't have been more grateful.

Will has finished his last piece of work. He has seven whole days to do whatever the hell he wants, and he is looking forward to it. Once he is home and changed into more comfortable clothing, the brunet snuggles up on his couch surrounded by his pack and falls asleep. It is by far the longest slumber he has had in years so Will feels completely refreshed and alive when he finally awakes.

After a solid nine hours unconscious to the world Graham isn't at all surprised that outside is dark. The dogs are snoozing, and when Will heads to the kitchen he notices the empty food bowls. With a light chuckle (yes, a chuckle!), the lonely man picks up the ceramic bowls and washes them along with the piled dishes beside the sink. He is willing to complete the chore too. If he wasn't alone, Will would've been told he is a changed man by now.

Once the dishes are clean, dry and stored in their rightful places, Will walks to his closet with a skip in his step to pull the broom out. He sweeps the whole house, ending with enough amount of dust and fur to create a new pack. The mess is discarded in his bin outside before Will grabs his car keys and drives to the closest shop. He buys some cleaning products, bread, milk, dog food (as well as anything they particularly enjoy) and a few microwave meals before he pays and exits.

Back in his car Will's phone rings, and the man answers without checking the caller ID. All is silent for at least two minutes but Will does not hang up. Instead, he checks who has rang and his eyes widen. The breathing on the other line quickens and a slight whimper is heard. Fearing that Will is listening to danger, he whispers down the phone.

“Hello? Abigail, are you alright? Can you speak to me?”

“Will? What happened to Hannibal? I heard and-”

“Ssh, I don't know but I'm going to find out. Where are you? Text me the address and I'll pick you up,” Will says, then hangs up. He instantly receives the text of Abigail's whereabouts and hangs up. The car roars to life after Will turns the ignition on and he speeds to his destination faster than legal.

When he arrives, Abigail is pacing the pathway beside an apartment building that she may or may not inhabit. She rushes to the car without a second of hesitation and climbs into the passenger seat rapidly. Will does not speak, instead obliges to Abigail's silent request to just leave. He drives home. They walk side by side to the front door but before they enter the man pulls a pieces of chicken from a packet.

Abigail follows Will inside, and he distracts the dogs with the food so the girl isn't mauled. Grateful, Abigail heads to the kitchen with Will in tow and pours herself a glass of water. The pair are silent for some time, simply basking in each others' presence after so long of not seeing one another. Will masks a smile at the sight of his surrogate daughter, simply glad to see the girl unharmed and somewhat happy.

“Are there any leads?” Abigail breaks the silence, setting her cup down on the worktop to face Will.

“Not yet. It seems weird without him around. Eerie, even.” he replies. She nods, a miniscule gesture.

“We'll find him. I miss him, y'know? He and you were the only men I trusted back when...” the sentence trails off, but they both know the ending. It's Will's turn to nod, this time in agreement instead of acknowledgement.

“I've missed you. But at some point there'll be a mistake, someone will mess up and I am certain we'll find him.” they fall into another comfortable silence. The man states how dark it is outside, now late and so pulls the sofa bed out for the girl. She declines his offer of clothes, showing her own set of outfits packed away in an overnight bag she brought with her.

Will knows that even though neither ask nor offer, Abigail will stay with him until they find Hannibal. Even after that too, if she pleases. Instead, he wishes her a goodnight, sends the dogs to sleep elsewhere then retires himself. He sleeps somewhat better.

* * *

Hannibal cannot seem to compose himself. His mind palace dissipates, all that is left are memories of fury and terror. He curls around himself, tightly gripping his tucked knees and resting his chin atop them whilst he cries. Nobody tells him to stop. He wouldn't even if given the command. Shaking, no, trembling violently, the therapist struggles for breath in between gasps and squeezes his eyes shut as if to trap his tears.

“Do you know who we are, Hannibal? I think you do,” says the man who poured the water. Hannibal opens his eyes and scrubs them with the heels of his hands, wiping away the tears but not the evidence of his crying.

He is hesitant to answer, but eventually does in a croaky voice, “Yes. I believe you are in affiliation with Grutas' group.”

“I am impressed, doctor Lecter. How did you know so quickly?” the second man replies, still too close for Hannibal's comfort.

“You both look like their offspring. I didn't know they had kids.” Lecter sneers, raw voice now filled with venom. If only he had done more research; he could've have killed them years ago! His captors chuckle in unison.

“Grutas was my dad, that's Milko's nephew.” Nodding, the therapist remains silent to absorb the information.

“Can I ask of your names?” he inquires. The son laughs dryly.

“Yes you can. But we shall not tell you. Would you like to know why you're here?” he says. Hannibal does not acknowledge him, yet the man answers anyway. “You are here because of what you did to my father and his uncle. We were all quite close families, you see.”

“They murdered my little sister, cannibalised her and broke my arm. My own family also died, so how is this a fault of my own?” Hannibal is intrigued, but he disguises it well enough.

“You then hunted our people down and killed them; quite brutally too. I think you should see this as a form of...revenge, I suppose.” the nephew informs.

“And what are you going to do as a part of your revenge?” Hannibal questions. Their eyes turn dark, teeth glinting and sharp under the light. Lecter hides a shiver.

“You'll see.”


	6. Chapter 6

Two months. Two months of being trapped in the dark.

Will and Abigail are beginning to lose hope. Will more so than Abigail (considering the longer duration of time spent searching for the man than his surrogate daughter has). But, they soldier on. Abigail works nearby in a shop and cares for the dogs whilst Will works. Jack has loosened his leash on the man but still keeps him tight under his reign. He cannot afford to lose his best profiler in these times.

The Chesapeake Ripper has struck again. He keeps striking, but his work is sloppier, not as proud and confident than it was. Suspicious. Suspicious. Abigail raises suspicion too, Will is sure she is hiding something when he tells her about the latest crimes. Neither say it aloud. The murders become worse and worse, until the mutilations are almost unrecognisable. Will thinks that the Ripper is using his artwork as an excuse to let out some anger.

The pair are angry too. No sign of Hannibal, dead or alive. Just. Nothing. These days it isn't unusual for Abigail to be found crying softly or Will to be awake but not quite there with glazed eyes and dry lips. They're both tired; emotionally and physically. Even Alana is breaking. But at least she has Margot. Someone sane to fall back on as an anchor whereas Abigail is too soft herself and Will's anchor is the victim.

He wonders what it would be like if they ever found the blond. Would he be completely different, mutilated? Or just a little broken in dire need of comfort and support? Will would prefer the latter. How would Abigail react? At his point, Graham doesn't even know whether he should bother pondering such questions with a chance that Hannibal is lost forever. The thought makes his heart and stomach lurch.

Abigail often joins him in the middle of the night, silently falling asleep beside him in his bed. Sometimes he wraps a protective arm around her, other times he ignores her presence until he too falls into a hopeful dreamless slumber. They're both light sleepers.

 

One random day, Jack asks Abigail to join Will at work. Graham is reluctant until Abigail practically begs him to take her. She wants some familiarity, or at least something new in her monotone routine (as she so boldly argued). Nevertheless, Hobbs joins Graham in the office. She even checks the labs out, meeting Jimmy and Brian there. It is a rather productive day for everyone, some may agree positive. The short union gave Abigail the opportunity to see how the others are dealing without Lecter. She was disappointed that Alana couldn't make it.

Jack claims that he likes Abigail's effect on the team, inviting her to the office any time. Will approves of the warm welcome. He even offers to give her a tour during the next visit, and secretly arranges for Bloom to be there as a surprise reunion. Abigail will be delighted. For just those few hours, even some after spending time at work, everyone manages to think about something other than the absence of the pretentious therapist.

* * *

The cage is nice. The cage will not hurt Hannibal. He can trust his cage. He cannot trust the strange people that take him away from his trusty cage to hurt him. Some of the more sick strangers sexually abuse him, taking what little of his dignity is left and discarding it like a litterbug on the street.

They laugh at him when he cries out or weeps in pain and sadness. His cage never judges him like that. His quiet room allows him to do so without an utter of complaint. His dark room provides comfort he lacks immensely. Lecter's captors bully him and manipulate him verbally, but never lay a finger on him. These days it is the only thing that Hannibal can trust in humans. He has been hurt too many times now to care what people think about him; he has been seen plenty in his vulnerable state.

The nightmares that plague his dream force him to wake prematurely, and Hannibal often finds himself crying quietly. On the rare occasion, either the son or the nephew will check on him, to see if he is getting up to anything. Lecter thinks he must scream to alert them. Who cares? Not him.

Hannibal has settled into a reliable routine. If he isn't already awake after the night terrors, one of his captors will rudely awaken him for breakfast. The meal (that isn't really a meal) consists of several nutrients and vitamins extracted from foods blended and poured into a flask. The psychiatrist never feeds himself. He does not have permission, or, as his kidnappers say, the right to feed himself.

Once breakfast has been served, Hannibal is dressed in his usual attire - a shirt or jumper, and jeans. No shoes or socks, nothing to protect him from the cold in his room. Jumpers are allowed when he behaves or the men are feeling generous, particularly if Hannibal has had a rough night. Despite this, the therapist is put back in his room to wait for the onslaught of abuse when the strangers arrive.

If Lecter really does not want to be hurt - even though he never wants it anyway - he'll climb into his cage and snuggle up. No matter if he knows his attempt to escape the pain is to no avail. Hours later when he is left alone again, Hannibal will pray to leave some day, even if just for a little while, to stand in the sunshine again without a chaperone or boundaries. The night differs. If the men enter the lonely room to tend to Hannibal's injuries then the doctor knows his body will be used for pleasure.

If Lecter is lucky he will sleep for a few hours and enjoy his day off (his body is used every other day) listening to the outside world from his confinement like Rapunzel. The lost soul. But the lost soul has a plan.

There are several benefits to creating routine. It allows one to organise their life, predict the future as if a calendar written to perfection. Their nonphysical diary that provides knowledge of their day. They can also plan around that routine, and alter it. With such a simple routine for Hannibal, it is almost unbearably tempting to change the routine or plan around it.

Plan around it. He will find a way to escape. Even if it is the last thing he does. He would die out of determination and agony. For the sympathetic, a heroic death, maybe even an admirable one. Someone else finds pity, or remorse. Another finds pleasure and annoyance. Nonetheless, Hannibal Lecter shall see the sun again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> evidence is found

By month three, Will receives a phone call. He and Abigail are sat on the couch, simply being and nothing more. He answers, unmoved by Jack's sharp greeting. Abigail watches as Will's expression goes from tired, to shocked, to determined then angry. Hobbs waits until Jack hangs up until she questions the call.

“Abigail, they found evidence!” Will exclaims, jumping to his feet alongside the girl.

“Seriously? Well c'mon we gotta go!” Abigail squeals, grabbing the two coats closest to her and throwing Will his then bounding out of the door.

“Wait! Abi-” Will chuckles, one filled with sadness but a pinch of actual joy. He follows his surrogate daughter to the car.

They drive to Jack's house so fast Will is certain that he has broken several speed limits, but he could not care less. His excuse if pulled over by authorities is that it is a life or death situation and that he works with the FBI - both not quite lies. Especially the latter. Abigail is restless in her seat, constantly fiddling with the crappy radio and rubbing her clammy palms on the pyjama pants she wears (she couldn't give a damn how she's dressed).

Upon arrival they are greeted by Crawford, Bloom and eventually Price and Zeller. The group gather in the living room where Jack sets up the DVD player with a tape labelled 'CCTV FOOTAGE'. Everyone is intrigued. By the time the room is quiet Jack has paused the start of a fuzzy recording that cannot be deciphered. No questions asked, the colleagues and friends wait for Crawford to explain what they are about to witness.

“I want you all silent. Just watch. This is a recording of CCTV footage found in Doctor Lecter's home the day he was taken; yes, it has been confirmed that he was kidnapped. Don't watch if it disturbs you, but we've all seen worse.” the final statement relaxes the bunch who were hoping nothing too bad happened to the therapist.

Jack plays the tape, eyes on the screen as he comes to join the people on the couches who are already at the edge of their seats.

It begins with Hannibal in his kitchen, preparing a meal (nothing surprising). There comes a soft bang that sounds like it is just above the camera, and Lecter notices it. It continues to show the advancement of two strangers and the short attack before the video cuts off and the screen goes blank. Silence. Will and Abigail discretely clutch each others' hands tightly whilst the others glance around to gage the reactions.

“Well, if I'm perfectly honest here then that wasn't as bad as I thought.” Brian breaks the silence like Hannibal's knife in the meat.

“Still, it was not particularly pleasant either.” Alana adds.

“So what now? We know he was kidnapped but that just leaves us at square one.” Abigail continues, her eyes landing on Jack's. The man swallows, thinking.

“From that we can find a form of identification. Or if there are other cameras we can see if there was a car parked up with a license plate.” Jimmy answers as Crawford shoots him a grateful look. He finds it difficult to deal with Abigail sometimes.

“What then? We search for the car? Wouldn't they have dumped it by now?”

“Yes. But we can test the car for any prints if we do find it. Confirmation and such.” Will responds, rubbing Abigail's knuckles gently. She sends him a sad smile that he relates to.

“We'll find him eventually, Abi, I'll make sure of it.” Alana attempts to reassure. Brian looks lost. Jimmy purses his lips and stares at the floor in thought whilst Jack fishes his phone from his pocket.

“I'll call the forensics at Hannibal's house to see if they can find anything else on his computer.” Crawford says, leaving the room as the phone dials.

* * *

 

“Hannibal, we're moving house. We won't come back but do not fret; you can still see your friends!” Hannibal shudders; their interpretation on friends is completely different. Hannibal's friends should be searching for him, but their friends shout rude things at him and hit him and do bad things at night.

“Why?” Lecter questions, his voice small and hoarse. Grutas' son chuckles.

“That is for us to know and for you not to find out,” the man responds. Before Hannibal can reply he is stabbed in the arm by an injection filled with a high dose of sedative to keep him still for the journey.

 

Dragged to the awaiting car outside, Hannibal is dead to the world. The nephew straps him into an adult sized carseat so he cannot jostle or escape if he manages to wear off the sedative beforehand. Them and some of the gang members that class themselves as Hannibal's friends aid the pair in setting off, all logging the new address so they can visit in a couple of days time.

When Lecter wakes, he feels sluggish and drowsy. He relates to the first time he awoke when his head weighed more than his entire body. How long ago was that? The blond isn't sure he wants to know. Rubbing his bloodshot eyes Hannibal glances around the room to see he is in a living room and his being has been stuffed in the tiny cage again. Nervously the man waits for his captors to come and get him, but in the meanwhile settles for watching the digital clock on the mantelpiece not far from his cornered crate.

The clock may be correct, Hannibal cannot tell in the dark, especially not whilst the curtains cover the windows. Albeit, he realises that twenty minutes later, he is still alone. Twenty minutes doubles, and at the two hour mark, the door opens. Startled, the sleepy Hannibal switches his gaze to the nephew. Is this his chance to escape? He has grown a little stronger, but not by a significant amount - he could be taken down far too easily if he tried to resist now. And what about his routine? Will that continue, or will he have to adjust again?

He cannot plan around the routine until he is fully settled with the monotone life drilled into his head. Unless he knows the day like the back of his hand, then Hannibal knows there is room for mistakes during his grand escape. In his train of thought, his kidnapper had opened the curtains and removed the clock. Lecter blinks away his light-induced blindness and stares up at the sneering man with colourful dots dancing around his vision.

Silently the nephew unlocks the cage door to drag Hannibal out. He grabs the man's torso to lift him up onto his feet, but independently the blond struggles to stand, toppling seconds later. With a sigh Hannibal's captor catches the weak man and instead picks him up. He carries Lecter on his hip out of the room, ignoring the whines of protest. The therapist wriggles profusely in a desperate attempt to manoeuvre his way out of the grasp. To no avail.

Eventually, the exhausted blond gives in and rests his head on the other's shoulder. Sleep tugs at his being, coaxing the man into the darkness. Before he can slip away, Hannibal jolts back to reality as he is set down on a primitive wooden chair. With no time to register, Hannibal's limbs are secured to the chairs structure with little slack. Lecter grimaces at the tight restraints; his wrists are already cut and bruised from being tied to things for so long.

This time Hannibal doesn't struggle and sinks into the seat with his eyes on the pair ahead. His heavy eyes blink slowly as his breathing evens out. A click of fingers in his face startle him, and his body jumps minutely under the bonds. He whimpers quietly. The son, now deemed the Boss of this capture (like father like son) laughs sourly as he scoops cereal into his mouth. The nephew is eating a piece of toast, both of them taunting Hannibal.

The blond switches his attention to the room, focusing on anything that isn't related to food. He hasn't eaten anything since he got here all those months ago. He lives on nutrient drinks and vitamin tablets. Instead, his stomach betrays his mind and grumbles loud enough to emit some snickers from the men. Hannibal blushes, curling in on himself as much as humanly possible in his ties.

Since the inspection of the room tactic failed so badly, Lecter concentrates on himself. He can smell the food, but blood and sweat on himself. He feels fatigue, but also tingling in his appendages from the biting cold. He tastes metal, probably iron, and the taste of bad breath in the morning, he is disgusted. The clinking of cutlery on glass and light chatter in the unknown language fills the air.

Hannibal listens to what the man are saying, forcing his brain to guess what they are saying.

“-i khto navchaty yoho?”

“Ya ne znayu, my mozhemo naynyaty kohosʹ.”

”Tak, a mozhe buty, zapytayete u tykh trakhanyy idioty, shchob zrobyty tse bezkoshtovno. Vony shcho-nebudʹ dlya yakoyisʹ marnoyu m'yasa vnochi!”

Hannibal gives up frustratedly. He realises he'll probably never know what they're saying, which is assumed their full intentions. He decides he does not care anymore, and that he shall speak in a foreign language too, when permitted to speak of course.

When finally, one of the two has finished his breakfast, he tidies away his dishes and marches over to the shivering pathetic remnants of Hannibal with a bottle in hand. Eager, the blond straightens and stares at the plastic cylinder intently, feeling his hunger pangs increase agonisingly. With a chuckle, the broad man sits beside his hostage to feed him. He places the nib of the baby-formed bottle on Hannibal's lips, who greedily laps up the vile tasting burst of life (well, it is technically the only thing keeping him alive) without any inhibition. Hannibal has grown used to this certain feeding technique, but he doesn't mind so long as he gets something edible. His captor tilts the bottle upwards and squeezes the contents so it pours faster than the therapist can swallow.

Choking, Lecter coughs but the liquid coats his airways and dribbles down his chin to create a mess on his chin, neck and chest. He cannot beg for cease, or flail his limbs. Hannibal makes it his mission to compose himself and drink the rest of his breakfast because of how precious it is. He must not waste anything. Not if he wants to grow strong enough to escape. To everyones' marvel, the psychiatrist does just that. He finishes the bottle and shares his thanks aloud (he shall never drop the habit of manners), before waiting to be released.

The other man amusedly grabs a damp, cold washcloth to scrub the gruel from Hannibal, then unties him easily to scoop him up without a second of hesitation then carry him back to the living room. The content blond snuggles up in his cage for a nap, oblivious to the hardship he shall face in hours to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT THE FRICKLE FRACKLE GUYS THE FINALE WAS AMAZING I WAS SO CLOSE TO TEARS HOLY GRAHAM CRACKERS  
> oh and the translations from Ukrainian:  
> -and who shall train him?  
> I don't know, we can hire someone.  
> Yes, or ask one of them fucking idiots to do it for free. They'll do anything for some worthless meat at night!


	8. Chapter 8

No less than a week after Jack rang the team of researchers to search the security cameras surrounding Lecter's house, he receives news of more evidence. An unlicensed car, ditched at the side of a deserted motorway matches the description of a car found leaving with Hannibal in the boot. Forensics confirm that the car was used to kidnap the therapist and that whoever took him has never had any criminal offences.

Abigail is elated. Will is relieved. Better little news than none at all. They can work on it. But yet, a flaw has arisen in the captors' plans. Their DNA is logged in the system; one wrong move and they're goners. It is bound to happen somewhere along the line. Neither of the two can wait.

Until the moment arises, the murder family with one missing, vital member continue on strongly, heads held high in disguise of their low hearts. Weekly meetings occur - usually located at Jack's (unless there are issues then they have agreed to stay at the deserted offices to chat), and play like a support group. It would be laughable to them if they didn't feel so distraught; some of the participants are only there for moral support.

* * *

Hannibal sleeps in peace, in contrast to his rough awakening. Dragged by his ankles to the other side of the room the groggy man can only groan softly. He is pulled up then told he has been assigned some chores. Now awake, Lecter is dreading having to literally scrub the kitchen floor with a damp brush not big enough to be classed as a mop but not small enough to be considered a dust brush.

Sent to his knees with the utensil, Hannibal is discountenanced to feel the cold pressure of a slithering chain locked to his ankle. Despite this setback, the therapist rolls his eyes to himself and determinedly brushes at the muddied floor. From footprints to spills and patches of dust, Hannibal covers it all (he guesses the unattended mess was intentionally left for him to clean).

No matter how despising he is of this predicament, Lecter doesn't feel degraded by this simple task. In fact, he enjoys doing something other than the less-than-productive counting in his head whilst he is hidden in his cage. He even likes the fact that he is not the one in charge and has no control over practically anything; it feels like he has been offered a break although it does feel slightly strange to be the helpless figure. Hannibal is coming to respect that in this place, he is trespassing territory and that his captors are the dominant role here. Exactly the way they anticipated. But Hannibal doesn't have to know that.

By the time he has finished, the tired, aching man is asleep on his feet and has to be carried back to the living room. Instead of being confined, Hannibal is laid on the floor and praised for his hard work. The carpet is warm and comfortable, drawing the fatigued blond into the bliss of sleep. Before his breath can even into a deep rhythm, Hannibal is shaken until he is self aware.

The nephew slips a bottle into Hannibal's mouth and feeds him the cold (usually heated) nutrition with a slight hurry. Lecter once again struggles to swallow everything as the bottle is squeezed, unintentionally but that does not make a difference. Soon enough (too soon for Hannibal's liking) all that is left is an empty plastic bottle and a very messy Hannibal, who seems to have dribbled more of the drink than he has digested. He is not pleased.

Scrubbed carelessly with a damp rag, the blond is unhappy as he is forced to get up again and walk to the room on the left. _That room._ By now, the energised man whimpers and struggles to worm his way out of the vice-like grips on his arms. He digs his naked heels into the concrete floor, tearing some skin so that blood oozes idly. To no avail; Hannibal is heaved up so his legs dangle a couple of inches from the ground, held up only by his biceps.

Tears spring to his eyes as they enter the dark room containing only a bedframe with a filthy, ancient mattress atop. There is a particular box on the floor beside the poor excuse of a bed filled with sexual toys used by everyone on Hannibal for their personal pleasure, never anything given in return for Hannibal. The whimpers amplify, turning into soft cries as the frightened therapist is tied roughly to the corners of the bedframe. Unable to bend his limbs, or move them any more than an inch or so, Hannibal is completely vulnerable to every patron that enters through the door tonight.

“As we were so generous to let you nap earlier, your shift will be a lot...bigger. Prepare yourself, boy, you're in for a long night.” the son explains, checking the knots will not give way anytime soon.

“Please Sir, I don't like it! Prašome, aš atsiprašau, aš tikrai esu! Neverskite manęs čia pasilikti naktį, Pažadu elgsis ir daryti visus mano favoritai; jums nebus išgirsti Žiūrėjimas iš manęs!” Hannibal cries, voice laced with desperation and anxiety.

“Quiet, boy! You shall not decide your fate, that is up to us and if you dare question or try to avoid our commands or requests there shall be some serious consequences. Understood?” the nephew booms, making the blond jump in surprise.

“S-sorry. How m-ma-ny?” Hannibal hiccups, rubbing his wet face against his bare arm. There is a sinister glint in the eyes of the captor that unnerves him to no end - a shiver runs up his spine. With no answer, the blond is encased in the silent room alone, waiting for men (rarely women) to come in and hurt him. He calls them the bad men. Or bad man, when they are singular.

Sometimes, there is only one bad man. Other times, there are a couple, even stretched to a few bad men. On most nights, groups of bad men plan a night out in the room, a handful being previous patrons at the old house. No matter how terrifying it is, or the amount of self-disgust one former dignified male feels after the session, it makes it easier to know who the people are. This way, Hannibal remembers what the bad men want from him, whether it be oral or anal rape, he knows how to prevent punishment. On the rarest of occasions the blond finishes early as he has fully pleased the clients and they neither want nor need anything from him until a later date.

All in all, Hannibal is almost a pro at manipulating the patrons; he's practiced on Will, Alana and Jack enough. But until he is strong enough, full of hope and determination, Hannibal will end up being a pro at pleasuring men. Sing for his supper. Or, rape for vitamins. Similar, in his mind.


	9. Chapter 9

After the success with the abandoned car, the captors seemed to lay low. They must keep tabs, a startling thought for Jack as he feels they might attack if provoked. Or maybe they'll remain in the shadows, hidden behind the stage curtain until they reveal themselves for the credits. He hides the thought to himself so the others do not feel unnerved like he, but Jack knows at least Alana is aware of the possibility.

Will is never going to give up, but he does take breaks for himself. He has realised that he has to continue life, and care for Abigail (who hurts as much as he does) and stay strong for Lecter. If they do find Hannibal in the near future, Will needs to be fit and well so he can keep Hannibal under his wing. He hopes Hannibal will trust him and Abigail enough to allow them to give him the constant care and support he needs.

* * *

Hannibal isn't sure what these men are going to do to him. The Bad Men hurt him especially last night; he struggles to breathe correctly and everything hurts and it's cold and he's hungry and why can't he just go home? His captors were right; it was one hell of a long shift and he doesn't know how he managed to stay conscious through the entirety of all three sessions. Now as he lies shivering in the barren room, his head withdraws into the depths of his mind palace, so far back that he becomes unaware of reality.

When he stares at the walls, they don't appear to really be there and he can hear distant movement or is it just his breathing? He can smell blood or is that the metal chain around his ankle making such a stench? He tastes vomit or is that other men's orgasms resting on his dry tongue? His body is numb with cold, the icy floor as chilling as his soul. With closed eyes he cries, curled up in a tiny foetal position and his head tucked into his elbow crook. Tears and blood mix together in a gory concoction; the burning liquid feels sticky and warm in comparison to his freezing cheeks. 

He cannot manage sleep, he has tried and achieved only pain and maybe twenty minutes of rest. The clock opposite his cage stopped a while ago, so he can no longer decipher what part of the day it is - he knows when it is night (but not what time it is) because every other evening he has pounding against his hips and agony blooming under his skin. The fire in his spine does nothing to warm his chilled body, the shivering is relentless and he wills his body to preserve energy. When at least an hour passes, his mind resurfaces gradually until he can block out all senses and get some rest.

As best as he can in the circumstances, Hannibal snoozes lightly, unable to fall any deeper into the darkness with so much overwhelming pain. Even in the light slumber, Lecter does not feel the chain on his ankle unlock, or the men touch his bruises until they begin to drag his abused body from his safety haven as he lurches up in fright. He cowers, whimpering loudly as he attempts to avoid their cold glares that make him feel all the more freezing. To his utter surprise, an itchy, woollen and expectedly ancient blanket is wrapped around his shoulders, hanging limply until Hannibal grasps it between his fingers and draws it closer. The warmth seeps into his skin and soon enough the trembling stops, despite still in pain from the dull cold he is grateful that his body no longer shakes uncontrollably.

He is confused, but the offer no explanation. What is going to happen to him?


	10. Chapter 10

Hannibal cries, he cries loudly and for a long time. He cares not for the mocking laughter around him, or the insistent kicking to his broken ribs. Breathing proves to be rather difficult as he gulps air down in desperation. It's too cold, it hurts too much, please stop, no more, I promise I'll be good. I'm sorry, so so sorry and I will be better next time just please stop I cannot take any more.

He cannot even see behind the blindfold, or beg over the wet gag in his mouth. The plugs in his ears block out most sound and all he can smell is his own blood, fear and urine. When strong hands clasp his feet, he lets them. It stops punishment and it will more than likely hurt less than it should. Lecter feels the grip grow impossibly tighter, crushing the bones and grinding them together, until he cries out. A sharp, stinging pain zones in on the sole of is foot, in the middle on the soft part. No less than three minutes later the pain is gone and replaced by dull numbness. The same thing happens to his other foot, and soon enough he finds himself being dragged up roughly.

His body sways unsteadily in the hold, he searches desperately for purchase on the ground but he cannot feel anything though he knows he isn't suspended because his armpits don't ache like they did when he was hung by his wrists from the ceiling as punishment. Laboured breathing slows, composure washing over the captive because he knows if he keeps panicking he will not be able to focus. Concentrate on the task at hand and nothing else.

Calloused feet remain flat on the floor, but they do nothing to support the weight of their neighbours. The burly man holding Hannibal up releases upon command, watching the tortured body collapse to the stone floor. It lays there, awkwardly positioned with limbs askew on its side, but they know from the twitching and light crying that he is not unconscious. Six males exit the room, the burly man included, sealing Hannibal in a cold rom all alone as he attempts to find slumber.

The inevitable darkness washes over his battered body, dulling the discomfort and caring for his mind, although his nightmares are what awaits. Later, when dawn is near and the men sleep, Hannibal rouses. In his dark room, without any chains or his cage, he can observe noiselessly his latest injuries without compromise. His feet are swollen along the ankles, and he notices the tiny pinpricks on the soles of both feet. One is bruised and looks broken, probably the one gripped heartlessly by the strong hand. The other appears okay, but he cannot tell when both are completely numb. He feels absolutely nothing.

 His body clock is completely disoriented with the lack of routine and Hannibal wants to give up on attempting to salvage any knowledge on what day or time it is. He just wants refuge. Home. Will, Abigail. Even Jack would be a God gift at this point. 

But he doesn't beg. Oh no, not now, not when the men ignore his cries. When the beatings begin, he cannot console himsef enough to stop the begs slipping from his lips. Alone, right here, he curses himself for his weakness, and show of anything but stoicism. He needs to survive. He doesn't want to die here - and he can cope with all the shit that comes after - that isn't half as bad as living in the now where the nightmares that plague his slumber come to life within hours. 

He's beginning to find solace in the walls, in the bars of his cage and the pits of his memory palace. Will and Abigail will save him, he knows it. He trusts them. And that hope, only a spark now, is bright, and all Hannibal has to cling to his sanity. They'll come get him. He just needs to last a little longer, wait it out. Lecter can do this. There has to be a crack in this system somewhere; even the best of criminals go wrong (he can admit to that once or twice, when Will has been dangerously close to finding him out). 

But for now. Rest. Regroup, think, plan. Stay alive. What more can he do?


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New beginnings.

Blaring sirens. Bright, blinding lights. Shouting. Noises. Stop! Hurt. Touching. Make it stop! What is happening?

Then warmth, everywhere, and kind touches. They don't hurt. Hannibal clings. Wide eyes soak up the sight of blood, his blood, and stone floors dotted with semen and spit barely seen by the amount of feet. A calming voice. What are they saying? 

Hannibal listens, he tries to comprehend the words, but the lack of communication has left his brain slightly frazzled. It's hard to focus and stay alive when there are too many people. Who is that?

Jack. Jack! Jack is here! Is this another hallucination? Sometimes the drugs do that to him. He can't recall being drugged though. So. No, it's Jack! Fake Jack didn't ever touch him, or speak to him. This is real! But how?

A blur of colours and sounds and movement, then all at once it is gone by a barked command. Quiet. That's better. Hannibal has trouble understanding, but it isn't his place to understand. It's his place to be a good, quiet boy and listen to commands. 

Stay alive. 

Instead of pain, there's comfort. Have they really come for him? How long has it been? Where did all the people go? So many questions need to be asked, but Hannibal knows he isn't allowed. He flinches as fingers curl around his arm, but they don't tighten. They retreat, and he relaxes. That didn't hurt. They backed off. Is this safe?

Hannibal whines, low in the back of his throat, at the new discovery of painless touch. Pain is all he has known thus far, this is different; scary. It takes him back to childhood, and he doesn't want that. To Mischa. Not the happy times of drawing their names in the dust. M for Mischa! Bad bad times, with pain and sickness and tears. Blood, gore and loss. Mischa Mischa Mischa! No!

He's stopped breathing, after seconds of hyperventilating. He goes quiet. Jack huddles a shock blanket around the man, and hurriedly approaches the crew waiting to scavenge the place out. The few bastards there have already been sent to the station, but one died via bullets to the skull. Their identities are yet to be discovered, but right now Jack couldn't care less. 

Will and Abigail clutch one another. Their eyes are wide and Crawford has never seen them so scared before. He nods, and they're gone. They need space with Hannibal, alone where they can reunite and calm each other down. The crew understand, they can analyse the bodily fluids collected from the building in the meantime. 

Will holds Abigail back as he slowly steps closer to the curled man on the floor. He crouches, with Abigail by his side. Together they gently lift Hannibal's chin up, so tearful eyes can meet fearful ones. Smiles, of pain and joy and overwhelming emotion. 

"Hannibal?" Will needs to know how far his friend is gone. Damage control, if you like. 

A soft gasp, and then. "Will?"

Will chokes on tears, carefully pushing himself forward so Hannibal can hold him. Abigail strokes ashen, greasy hair back, and the touch brings Hannibal's attention. 

"Abigail?" sobs. They cling as a group, finding purchase in flesh and clothes and kisses on cheeks and foreheads and tears. Desperation to be close, after so much time apart. 

Later, they stay as a trio. Refuse to be parted. In the ambulance, at the hospital, in the room. Waiting. Wanting. Hannibal has frequent panic attacks at the slightest twitch, falls into a dangerous headspace that he finds difficult to come out of alone. Touches work, but only feather-light ones. Kisses work too. 

This man is so starkly contrasting to who Hannibal was, but everyone is overjoyed that he's even still alive, and barely dying. Sure, the injuries are gruesome and his mind is a puddle of incoherence and fear, albeit they'd take this over not knowing whether he's alive or dead any day, yet it's so much better than his corpse being the thing they find left in the horrible, nightmare inducing place. 

Hannibal doesn't know how they found him, perhaps never will. He can't care, not when they're right here now, it doesn't matter anymore.

He's safe, it takes a while to establish that, but he realises within the days of his hospital period. Will and Abigail don't ever leave his side, when he's awake anyways. It takes a lot of coaxing for anyone to leave, even for brief periods of time. They're a family again, and nobody can take that away from them anymore.

And of course it'll take a while for Hannibal to recover (he may never properly get over what happened, and it'll always be a part of him) but for now. He's home. 


End file.
